


We Belong to the Thunder

by monimala



Category: Iss Pyaar Ko Kya Naam Doon? | What Shall I Name This Love?
Genre: Bollywood, F/M, Fluff, Future Fic, Jossed, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-19
Updated: 2012-05-19
Packaged: 2017-11-05 15:56:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monimala/pseuds/monimala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Arnav and Khushi finally get together, they have more lessons to learn. (Written before they got married on the series. It's still fairly canon compliant if you hand-wave a few details.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Belong to the Thunder

He stalks her around the bedroom. She dances just out of his reach, her cheeks flushed red at his nakedness. When she backs up against the edge of the bed, he finally has her: He pushes her back against the mattress, capturing her stream of mock outrage-- “ _Arré! Yeh sab kya hai? Ruko!_ ”-- in a kiss. Each night, it’s as though she’s seeing him for the first time. Each night, he has to teach her anew.

“Say it,” he growls, pinning her arms over her head, so the tips of her fingers brush the headboard.

“ _Kya_?” Her dark eyes are giant pools of mirth as she easily wriggles out of his grip. Laughter marks each note of her words. “ _Kya soonna hai, Laad_ Governor?” _What do you want to hear, Lord Governor?_

He hates that name, hates what it stands for… for all of his arrogance to her, his countless cruelties. That is a man he no longer wants to be. Not for her. Not for anyone. Perhaps that’s why she uses it still, to remind him of what form he could so easily revert to. “My name,” he tells her, sliding his bare knee between her clothed one, delighting in the simple sensation of soft cotton against the hairs on his thigh. He loves her modest _kurta-pyjamas_ … and how immodest she is beneath them. “Say my name, Khushi. No stupid ‘Governor.’ No ‘ _ji_.’ _Sirf_ Arnav.”

It took her months to stop calling him “ _aap_.” Ridiculous, when he’s never used such formality with her, when he gave her nothing to respect him for. But Khushi does respect tradition. All the rules and _sanskar_ he doesn’t have use for, she holds dear.

“ _Chalo… sirf tumhara naam kyu_?” she teases, her hands on him not nearly as bold as her tongue. “ _Hum apni naam bhi saath saath le sakthi hu_.” _I can take my own name just as well_ , she scoffs, palms just barely skimming his chest.

“ _Tho lelo_. Who is stopping you?” Here, in bed, it’s safe to laugh. It’s safe to let her tutor his smiles and shape the right lines with her lips. In turn, he tends to her gasps, her sighs, and her hushed noises of wonder. He tugs loose the ties of her _pyjama_ and finds where she’s hot and ready and not the least bit shy. And when she arches underneath him, his desperately desired “Arnav” barely passes her lips before she comes apart.

“Khushi Kumari Raizada,” he murmurs against her temple, listening to her quiet, shallow breaths and the thundering of her heartbeat. _He_ did that. _He_ brought her to the edge and tipped her over. No one else has ever seen her with her hair spread like silk across a pillow, with her lips parted for a thousand kisses. He gains a near-vicious satisfaction in that. In owning her pleasure, in marking her as his in every way. “Your name is mine.”

She lifts one hand to stroke his face, rubbing her fingertips against his day-old shadow of beard. “ _Tumhara har janam meri hain_ ,” she counters, humbling him without effort. Because she is right. His every incarnation _is_ hers. His every life, his every breath, his every hope, his every despair. From the first moment he laid eyes on her, from the instant she fell into his arms, he has belonged to her. She is his wife, after months of pushing and pulling and stupid blindness on both their parts, but he was her husband long ago… before he could give name to the _rishta_ , before he knew he wanted it, before he even knew what happiness was.

Of course the definition is simple, completely obvious, as he gazes down at her now. “Khushi.” As he whispers her name and sinks into her. “Khushi, Khushi, Khushi.” _She_ is happiness. Quite literally the purest joy he’s ever known. And, each night, she teaches him anew.

 

\--end--

 

_January 1, 2012_


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